


Stop the World (and melt with you)

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: “What do you mean Strome hates me?”Dvo nudges Mitch to the right, and oh. Strome is just about smirking in Mitch’s direction. Asshole.“Doesn’t really look like it now, but he’s been glaring at you right up until McDavid scored.”Mitch wouldloveto be gloveless right now and give that douche the finger. Instead, he focuses on how Strome’s face lights up as McDavid skates by, bumping their fists together.Mitch frowns, glares down at his feet and ignores the way his chest aches. They’ll come back in the second. For sure.





	Stop the World (and melt with you)

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [cjmasim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmasim/pseuds/cjmasim) in the [PuckingRare2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PuckingRare2018) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> soulmate AU, any type, during juniors. bonus points for working in (and resolving) Dylan Strome's rivalry with Mitch
> 
> Huge thanks to the mods for the time extension, writers block is not fun ever. Big love to my Hockey Hoes and E for the beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This follows from 2013-2016 as closely as possible, Google is my friend and hockeydb.com is the greatest for roster and schedule help. **cjmasim** I hope this stupid amount of words is somewhat resemembling what you asked for!

There’s rules about soul marks in hockey. When yours starts to come in around your fifteenth birthday, you cover it up. There are companies dedicated to increasing the longevity of bands that will take the wear and tear of a hockey season—of all sports, really. Then there are the brands who sell more based on looks, even Apple getting in on it with watch modifications. Some kids even have parties to celebrate knowing they have someone out there, waiting just for them. 

Hockey kids, though? Hockey kids get an NHL-approved band that covers your wrist and can only be removed and replaced by an official. It’s all pretty clinical, really. Walk in and wait until your name is called, place your arm through a screen, latch comes undone, you get maybe seven - eight - seconds of air on skin that doesn’t see the light of day apart from this time once a year. New band on, snap closed, sign here and here, pay there and you’re done. Tops? Thirty minutes if they’re running behind, ten on a slow day. 

Mitch is happy he’s never seen his. Doesn’t think about it, really. Not when there’s hockey to be played, training in the summer, schoolwork to concentrate on, and attempting to have a social life outside of that. Not that it matters, really. There’s always parties to go to that revolve around team and talk that seems to focus on who’s got the best celly and how shit the Leafs are this season. No one talks about soulmates when there’s girls who smile and wink, and on the road… well, it’s just bros, isn’t it? 

Hockey is pretty much enough for him, anyway. He plays well. So well, that scouts start appearing at his games when he’s ridiculously young. He moves up through the ranks until he’s got the choice between U of Michigan and playing for the London Knights, and, well… he’s a Toronto boy at heart.

 

**./ ./ ./ (2013-2014 season) ./ ./ ./**

Dylan Strome.

Arch nemesis.

Dick on the ice.

Subpar… okay, fine. _Decent_ at hockey.

Bane of Mitch’s life when they play the Otters.

Mitch sees him during warm up and wants to put a puck through his face. Or maybe pucks in the Otters net, but. Whatever.

Thing is, Dylan Strome is a dick, and Mitch kind of hates him.

 

./ ./ ./

Mitch loves playing for the Knights. Loves how it’s hockey, so it’s the same thing he’s been doing for years but… it feels like so much _more_ now he’s in major junior. 

Feet are faster. Players are bigger. He might be fast, but he’s not huge, so he has to concentrate on moving the puck, finding open slots and relying on others to make spaces. 

Even Mitch can tell, though, there’s something special about Connor McDavid.

Everyone’s heard about McDavid. 

Fast feet, soft hands… hockey brain. 

Petitioned the OHL to join a year early. 

Mitch likes watching him play… well, not when they're on the ice together, but, you know, better the devil you know, maybe?

It’s just. 

His hockey is _good,_ and yeah, maybe Mitch gets a little caught up in seeing 97 fly up the ice and score, even when it’s on his own team. It’s just. It’s hot, okay? McDavid’s hockey is hot, and Mitch can appreciate that. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. That fluttery feeling he gets in his chest when McDavid snipes one past Patterson, that’s nerves or something. Probably.

Doesn’t explain why when Strome flies by the bench he gives Mitch a death stare.

Guy’s a dick is all.

 

./ ./ ./ 

“Why does Strome hate you so much?” 

Mitch doesn’t look away from the ice, they’re down by two… no, 97’s just scored. 

Down by three and it’s only been twelve fucking minutes. Fuck.

At least Strome isn’t on the ice. Which—“What do you mean Strome hates me?”

Dvo nudges Mitch to the right, and oh. Strome is just about smirking in Mitch’s direction. Asshole. 

“Doesn’t really look like it now, but he’s been glaring at you right up until McDavid scored.”

Mitch would _love_ to be gloveless right now and give that douche the finger. Instead, he focuses on how Strome’s face lights up as McDavid skates by, bumping their fists together.

Mitch frowns, glares down at his feet and ignores the way his chest aches. They’ll come back in the second. For sure.

 

**./ ./ ./ (2014-2015 Season) ./ ./ ./**

It takes an invite to the Ivan Hinkla Memorial Tournament for Mitch to finally get to know Dylan as something other than “that douchebag 19” or “that Strome asshole” or just “fuckface.”

The team seems to gel well in ways that only kids who’ve grown up in Canada basically playing each other since Mites can. Mitch doesn't entirely ignore Dylan, but he doesn’t exactly seek him out, either. They’re neck and neck in points back home, and the looks that Dvo picked up on last season have only become more noticeable this year. Probably because Mitch is returning them now, more than ignore them like he had before.

Still, the team are cool, and he knows a few of the guys from different teams and summer camps and shit and… there’s Strome. It’s fine. Dylan comes up to him after their first day of practice and holds his hand out and Mitch maybe hesitates a few seconds because—why not? It’s long enough that Dylan rolls his eyes and says, “For Canada?” Mitch shakes his hand then, because, yeah. 

“For gold, baby,” he replies, and Dylan laughs, and after that they’re mostly okay.

 

./ ./ ./

When Coach Hull puts them on a line together it’s like… it’s like magic. 

Pucks seem to pass from tape to tape without them even needing to look. Mitch seems to know where Dylan is going to pass, and Dylan seems to know exactly where Mitch wants him to be, and they score.

They score a _lot._

They score so much that they win it all.

“Fucking gold, baby!” Stromer echoes Mitch’s first day assessment, near screams it in Mitch’s face when they all pile onto the ice. A bunch of smelly, ecstatic boys, and they’ve done it. They’ve kept Canada’s winning streak running.

They go out to dinner and cause a ruckus as only a bunch of idiot seventeen and eighteen year olds can, eating the restaurant out of basically anything they put in front of them. They’re ravenous, and so, so fucking loud that the owner threatens to throw them out twice before one of the assistant coaches leaves the table for a bit, coming back with the owner smiling and possibly a lighter wallet. They’re told the usual when they get back to the hotel. Be good. Remember they’re here as Canada’s finest and for god’s _sakes_ make sure you at least get an hour of sleep before roll call in the morning.

Most of them shower before they hit Hobbs’ room because one, he’s the oldest, and two, his sideburns make him pass for older, so his fake ID actually looks like it could be bang on. Hobbs, of course, isn't there—he’s snuck out with Merkley because WHL kids stick together, to get the hooch. Mitch and Crouse get to the room just after Hobbs does, from the sounds of quickly shushed cheers that start and finish as they enter. It’s cheap and nasty vodka, but when they mix it with the orange crush–looking pop that Coach Raymond gave them “for reasons I don't want to know, or see evidence of at five AM tomorrow” it’s passable.

The night wears on into morning, and guys leave or pass out and strangely enough Mitch finds himself with Dylan nearly freezing on the balcony of the room, sharing the last of the vodka between them. Dylan stole one of the blankets from a bed inside that Mitch hopes isn’t Hobbs’, because he was the bringer of booze. They snuggle up close anyway because it's fucking cold and Mitch always feels like he’s on the verge of catching pneumonia once he’s drunk enough. He started out just sitting beside Stromer, but as they drank more and the night wore on, Dylan told him to get his shivering ass under the blanket, so he stopped wasting the vodka.

Dylan is stupid warm, which is the first thing Mitch notices. The second is, “Dude, where’s your pants?”

Dylan shrugs, passing the bottle to Mitch from under the covers. “Legs get hot. Gotta make sure you keep the temperature regular down below, you know? Can’t risk the future of the Strome clan dying out because I was cold or something.”

MItch shakes his head, tips the bottle to his lips and realises that he probably should stop drinking right about now, what with how it isn’t burning his esophagus with every sip anymore. 

They talk about games they played and filthy goals and what they saw of other teams during the tournament, even though it wasn’t much. Talk turns again to the points they scored tonight (or yesterday… Mitch isn’t looking at his phone, he possibly left it in the room somewhere, but he’s fairly certain no one will figure out his passcode).

“That last goal you scored, though?” Mitch says—possibly slurs. “That was a fucking _beaut,_ man. Just, bam, bam, swipe and back of the net.” 

Dylan’s cheeks go red, or possibly redder, as he bites at his lip, shushing at Mitch. It’s maybe the third time Mitch has mentioned this and maybe the second time tonight he’s thought how cute it is when Dylan gets sort of embarrassed. Cute is a thing that Dylan Strome can be, apparently.

It’s probably the vodka making Mitch think this way.

Possibly.

It’s also possibly the vodka that has Mitch leaning forward, his nose grazing the round of Dylan’s cheek as he finds himself whispering, “So good. So fucking _good,_ Dylan.” 

It’s maybe the cold or the fact Mitch’s hand is also at home on the warm skin (he really wasn’t lying) of Dylan’s knee that makes Dylan turn. Has their lips all chapped and cold skimming over each other. 

It’s definitely the vodka that has Mitch tilting his head a little to the left, and yeah. They’re kissing properly now.

Mitch is sort of kissing Dylan, and it isn’t bad? Mostly because Dylan makes this soft sound and he’s kissing Mitch back and… it’s nice. Too nice to stop, so when Dylan does break off and ask what they’re doing, Mitch shrugs, leans in and kisses the warm air from Dylan’s lungs.

 

./ ./ ./

They don’t talk about it the next day when they end up sitting on the plane together back to Toronto. They don’t talk about it after they sort of stopped once the sky was starting to lighten and it really was _fucking_ freezing back on the balcony. Mitch managed to sleep for an hour in his bed before Crouser’s alarm went off and he had to get up.

He does notice there’s red scratch marks around his wrist guard when he takes a shower. He doesn’t really stop to think about what it might have meant the night before when he was sure the skin underneath was tingling, almost heating up like an itch he obviously couldn’t scratch, even if in his sleep he tried and failed to.

It doesn’t _mean_ anything.

He texts Stromer a ridiculous line of emojis when he gets back home and receives an equally ridiculous line back in return less than a minute later.

His wrist tingles, and Mitch smiles stupidly at his phone.

 

./ ./ ./

“Mitchell! Marns, Marner, the Marnerino,” Dylan calls, swaying from the back step of this house someone on the Otters billets in. 

The Otters had won, and the only reason Mitch is here is because their bus blew something or other and they won't have it ready for a few hours, if not the morning. Mitch had been texting Dylan about it and then an invite to a house party was offered and Mitch, Dvo, and Domi tagged along. They get there later than they’d hoped—sneaking out of the motel hadn’t been that easy—but Dylan had arranged for MacDermid to pick them up close by, so it's not as bad as walking could have been. Which they’ll probably have to do on the way back.

Fuck. And they play the Otters again tomorrow night.

It’ll be fine. Mitch just won't drink. Much. 

He’s seventeen, he’ll be fine.

“Marns,” Dylan sings out again, softer as he throws an arm around Mitch’s shoulder and drags him in, his lips smacking loud and obnoxious on Mitch’s cheek.

Mitch laughs and puts a hand on Dylan’s hip to steady him as Dylan leans in close to his neck. 

“Missed you,” Dylan whispers, soft and hot against Mitch’s ear, sending shivers down his spine.

Someone wolf whistles and another shouts about getting a room, which, slightly embarrassing. Before Mitch can say anything, Dylan is dragging him back into the house and up the stairs into someone’s room. It’s quieter up here and yeah, Mitch had thought maybe what happened in Breclav, stayed in Breclav. Dylan, maybe didn’t have the same line of thought if the way he pins Mitch to the door and kisses him deep and dirty is anything to go by.

It doesn’t take long for Mitch to push Dylan back, if only for a second, to get them headed toward the bed. He watched Dylan sway his way up the stairs and he can definitely taste beer and rum from how he had Dylan’s tongue in his mouth, so horizontal seems like a good idea. Dylan basically drags Mitch on top of him when he bounces back onto the mattress, grin big and stupid on his stupid cute face, and Mitch goes. He keeps himself mostly above Dylan, holding himself up with one hand as the other cups Dylan’s cheek as they kiss and kiss. They only stop when Mitch groans loudly as Dylan’s hand grabs at his ass, pulling Mitch down so they’re basically lying against each other, the thin layers of their clothing between them. 

Mitch gets hard ridiculously fast for someone still in his jacket and boots, but kissing Dylan like this, so open and wanting and free, it’s thrilling. He feels like his whole body is on fire, his wrist a point that radiates more than most. He ignores it, focuses on how Dylan feels under him. How he’s rocking up into every shift of Mitch’s hips and he just. He should. He _wants._

“Can I, can—“ he starts and stops, swallowing down all the dumb ways to ask if he can get Dylan’s cock out and maybe see how different it looks hard than that time he sort of caught a look when they were in the showers together. It’s not bros, he knows that, but it’s not his fault that sometimes things get in your eyeline. 

Dylan’s fingers go tight where they’re threaded into Mitch’s hair, the skin on Mitch’s neck stings but in a good way. “God, yeah, please, Mitch, yeah,” Dylan babbles, and he’s letting go of Mitch as Mitch shimmies down the bed, rubbing his hands over Dylan’s shirt-covered chest, so skinny he can feel his ribs anyway, down and down to the line of his pants and. 

Mitch is totally going to do this. It might be bros or it might be more and he should probably think about this because the skin under his wrist band burns and he’s heard about the reason why that happens. Or maybe happens and… he pulls at Dylan’s stupid loose sweats, gets them down with his boxers to mid-thigh in one go. Nearly gets his eye taken out by Dylan’s dick as it springs up and to the left and oh.

It is pretty.

And definitely a grower not a shower. Huh.

Mitch tries not to think about anything else apart from how Dylan tastes and not choking and holding Dylan’s hips down so he won’t accidentally _try_ that. The good thing is that Dylan is young and so is Mitch and so it doesn’t take all that long for Mitch to get used to (and find he likes) Dylan’s cock in his mouth and also for him to figure out how to grind against the bed so it feels good at the same time. Dylan, the asshole, doesn’t give Mitch any noticeable sign he’s about to come, his fingers flutter randomly at Mitch’s shoulder where he’s pushed Mitch’s jacket off, before he’s coming down Mitch’s throat and Mitch has no choice but to swallow or choke. 

“Fuck, fuck, Connor,” Dylan curses and Mitch… Mitch is too busy coming in his own fucking pants to say anything, but it kind of ruins the afterglow when he rolls off Dylan and the warmth he had from before is just. It’s gone.

And because Dylan really is an asshole (albeit an asshole Mitch had started to maybe have some sort of feelings for with all the texts and occasional phone calls and that Skype that time), Dylan fucking passes right out.

Mitch gets up and steals the hoodie that Dylan had ripped off on his way to the bed what feels like minutes ago and hopes its long enough and dark enough out in the house that no one will see the stain that's definitely forming down his thigh. Of course the first person runs into as he walks out the door is fucking McDavid. He stares and Mitch stares and then his eyes drop to Mitch’s neck. Mitch’s hand comes up after a second because Dylan is a biter (and leaves asshole marks like the asshole he is) and he can feel his skin flush and his stomach twists under McDavid's assessment. Dark eyes flash past Mitch then, and Mitch knows McDavid can probably see where Dylan is lying in the bed. He’s not naked, but not entirely looking innocent. Mitch may have covered him with a blanket, but his pants are still curled around his ankles so there’s that. Mitch pushes past McDavid when nothing else is said, and his skin feels aflame and his left wrist is aching nearly as much as his chest which… he’ll think about later.

He finds Domi first and then Dvo, who whines about being dragged away from the girl he’s apparently “working on” but they go without too much fuss. The normal look Mitch is going for probably isn’t what he hopes it is by the notable way they agree to go so fast.

He thinks about asking Dylan about it the next time they text. Thinks that it's definitely bad form to call someone else’s name other than the person giving you head when you come. Thinks maybe he should offer for Dylan to talk to him about it. 

He doesn’t though.

Not when the next text he gets from Dylan is about how drunk he was at the party and did Mitch even arrive?

If Dylan wants to pretend that it didn't happen, then Mitch can do that. Likes being able to do that, even.

The skin under his wristband stops tingling in a way that makes Mitch wonder how he didn’t notice how weird it felt before it disappeared completely. 

 

./ ./ ./

A few weeks later and he gets a phone call at three AM that wakes him up, and he answers because, three AM? It has to be some sort of emergency.

Or a drunk Dylan Strome.

“You believe in soulmates, Marns?” Mitch picks out the question amongst Dylan's loud hiccups. He must be in rough shape. Stromer had told him that he only hiccups endlessly if he’s drunk too much rum. It’s weird, and not because it’s rum and hiccups, but more that it’s a Tuesday night and they both have school in the later morning and definitely hockey in some form or another.

(Mitch may have stopped paying attention to the Otters schedule. The points that were piling up between him and Dylan though? Those he still pays attention to.)

“Like…” he starts, the quiet dragging on so long that Mitch thinks maybe Dylan’s fallen asleep until he hiccups again. “My brother, yeah? My brother Ryan? He’s in the NHL you know,”

Mitch chuckles, shifts the phone under his ear and turns so he doesn’t have to hold it. 

“Yeah, I know your brothers, Dylan. Ryan and Matthew and Dylan, the middle and most annoying Strome brother.”

“Hey,” Dylan whines, stretching out the word. “You sucked my dick, boo. Can’t be that bad.”

Mitch’s skin flushes. So he does remember. 

“Anyway, no. I wanted to talk to you about soulmates. And my brother Ryan.”

“Not Matthew,” Mitch teases, because it’s three fucking AM and he’s tired but he’s also missed the sound of Dylan’s voice, so.

“Ryan and John. Like they’re so good on the ice? It’s like… maybe the hockey gods knew he was going to the Islanders and just like, _put_ John on his arm so they’d have each other?” 

Mitch closes his eyes. “I don’t think that's how soulmates work, Dyl. For one thing, you get your name when you’re fifteen, yeah? That’s a long time before the draft and isn’t John older than your brother?”

Dylan scoffs. Hiccups again. “That… that’s like whatever. I’m just saying like. No one knows what the name is under their guard, right? Not until after the Draft and then you know so like, maybe, maybe the name isn’t set until you get your jersey? Maybe it waits and finds you your person after your name gets called?”

 _”Dylan._ ”

“Or maybe, maybe you have that person's name and then you find them and you play so, so good together. People like to say you’d have a hockey bond if they were still around. You’re that good, and you kind of love this person, but you don’t. Don’t know if he—” Dylan stops, sounding all choked up, and Mitch isn’t sure what to say. If he wants to define what or _who_ it is he thinks Dylan is talking about.

“Connor’s just so good, yeah? He’s so. He’s a good captain. Good friend. Such a good friend. He’s just.” Dylan sighs and sniffles a little, and Mitch feels like someone is squeezing a vise around his heart; his wrist feels cold and hot, and he isn’t sure what that means. He just knows that Dylan sounds so, so sad, and Mitch feels stupid about what he thought he and Dylan were maybe doing or what it could have meant when Dylan is so, so obviously….

“Dyl, do you think, you think maybe Connor is your soulmate?” Mitch asks so soft and quiet he isn’t sure Dylan can hear him. 

He waits for an answer, every second that passes feels like he’s pushed Dylan too far. Said the wrong thing. Mentioned a name he shouldn’t have even though he’s not the first to have said it.

He’s about to apologise or say more or less when a loud, obnoxious snore echoes down the line and fuck.

“You're an asshole,” he whispers into the phone, a faint smile playing on his lips, and yeah. Dylan may love someone else, and maybe Mitch didn’t realise how he’d started thinking of Dylan in that way himself. It doesn’t stop him falling asleep to the sound of Dylan’s snores echoing tinny through his phone speaker, either. 

 

./ ./ ./ 

This whole soulmate and dating before knowing who’s name is on your wrist thing plays on his mind over the next week. It’s not as if he thought what he and Dylan were doing was dating. 

Really, it’s not dating if you’re never really in the same room together and it’s all just text and phone calls and….

Okay, so kissing and that failed blowjob or not-so-failed because they both came, but then Dylan _did_ say someone else’s name, so.

So if it isn’t really dating, then maybe it could have been, if Dylan didn't have feelings for someone else. But… it makes Mitch wonder. 

If it’s sort of Dylan’s fault they aren’t dating then, why isn’t anyone else lining up to date Mitch? 

“I’m not that bad, am I?” Mitch asks Owen when they’re setting up the cafe one Friday for pizza night. Owen’s wiping down the bench, and Mitch sort of has his face stuck in the fridge, pretending like he’s pulling out the cheese and shit they’ll need to cut up for later. He isn’t completely sold on Owen being the right guy to ask but… his options are pretty slim.

“Bad? Like at what? GTA ‘cause you’re not _that_ great, bud,”

“No,” Mitch shakes his head, picks up another couple of tomatoes and places them in the crook of his arm so he can load up with more. Might as well fake this whole deal and actually do the work at the same time. “Dateable. Boyfriend material, I guess.”

“Dude, if this is the way you’re asking me out, I gotta tell ya…”

Mitch’s face scrunches up as he turns, kicking the door shut with the back of his foot. Owen’s grinning anyway as he stands up, flicking the cloth he was using up and over his shoulder. 

“What does it matter, anyway? It’s nearly the Draft, man. You get up on stage, get that jersey, and after all your interviews and shit for going third, you get to take your band off and find out who your soulmate is. It’s not like dating now is gonna change that. You’ve got plenty of time to find them and date whoever it is after.”

“Doesn’t stop Parsons does it? He’s been dating Breeana for, like, forever,” Mitch adds, using the salami in his hands as a pointer. 

Owen rolls his eyes. “Parsons is a goalie. They’re weird for all sorts of reasons—why wouldn’t dating before you get your soulmate reveal be any different.”

Mitch hums, setting up his station with his favourite knife (the only one that actually is sharp enough to not ruin the tomatoes) and starts slicing. “I guess. It’s just. I don’t know,” he finishes abruptly with a shake of his head.

“Do you _want_ to date someone?” 

Mitch thinks about how he would grin goofy-like when he’d get a text from Dylan. How his left arm would tingle and heat under his wristband when he sees Dylan on the ice. Catches him staring from the other bench. 

“Maybe,” he answers. Then he thinks about how much it hurt when Dylan said Connor’s name. When he talked about Connor fucking McDavid and soulmates and hockey bonds and bullshit in the same breath. “Maybe I should just wait until after the Draft.”

 

./ ./ ./ 

Mitch thinks he’s got it under control. This crush he has on Dylan. It’s probably hockey-related anyway. His emotional wires getting crossed or something. It’s not like he has a lot in life to really relate “liking” someone to other than for their hockey, so. 

It’s nothing.

But then he’s pulling his gloves off after a tough loss to the Rangers in the first round of playoffs and Max notes his guard is loose. It’s not unusual for guards to lose their staying ability the older they get. Hockey guards, though, are changed yearly compared to every other person on the planet. Can’t have potential career players unfocused for any reason.

He gets up, holding his right hand over his left wrist as he tells coach, who sits him back down and takes his skates off first. Most rinks have a room where broken guards can be fixed—errant skates slicing through plastic have been known to happen—so it only takes an extra hour of sitting around in his Under Armour for the official to arrive. She’s got a warm smile that settles Mitch’s heart, which he didn’t realise was racing. The shock of being so close to knowing, to _seeing_ who his heart calls for, being right there under his palm. 

He shouldn’t look. Draft is mere months away and he’s waited this long but….

Dylan’s touch plays in his mind. The way Mitch’s heart skips a beat when he can _feel_ Dylan smile against his skin, his stupid long lashes brushing softly against Mitch’s neck when they cuddled after. 

The minute she turns to dispose of his faulty guard he looks.

He looks and then closes his eyes.

He should never have looked at all.

 

./ ./ ./

If he sends most of Dylan’s calls to voicemail it’s because it’s the semifinals and it’s easy to ignore everything off ice when all Mitch can do is think about the next point, the next assist, the next _win._ If after it all goes to shit in game four, then Dylan will get it, it’s not that Mitch is a sore loser it just… it hurts. If after Erie makes it through only to lose it in five then he could be giving Dylan the same space and courtesy Dylan sort of failed to give Mitch two rounds before. If he continues to ignore Dylan’s incessant attempts at contact through the first part of their combined actual summer, it's because he’s busy training and thinking about the Combine. 

If he lets Dylan’s texts sit there until his phone is basically vibrating off whatever surface it’s on, the only one who complains about it is his mom, and, well… he just turns that function off to save any further questions.

He can’t ignore Dylan when he turns up at his door, a week out from the Combine with Connor McDavid in tow. He wants to drag Mitch out to Sauga to play freaking ball hockey, which, yeah, normally Mitch would be up for but… It’s _Dylan_ and his easy smile and his pretty eyes and his stupid hair and chipmunk cheeks. And then it’s also Connor and his easy blush and his quiet jokes and his awkward hands off ice but also that squint his eyes get when he _really_ grins and that soft snort he makes when Mitch says something funny. 

It’s a _Lot_ with a capital L, Mitch thinks. His mother, apparently, has no thought to Mitch’s internal capitalisation problems when she basically shoves him out the door with a “have fun!” And a “say hi to Dylan’s mom for me!”

 

./ ./ ./

How Connor doesn’t know that Dylan has the fucking hots for him seems like an impossible feat to Mitch. 

They spend the rest of the summer leading up to the Draft playing hockey and getting burnt and jumping in and out of the pool and getting worse or better at GTA depending on who you are (Dylan better, Connor worse—so much worse). 

Dylan’s fucking heart eyes can be seen from space with how he basically glows whenever he’s even _glancing_ in Connor’s direction. Even with Connor right there, he’s still _Connor this,_ and _Connor that,_ and that “one time Connor and I” and “Connor, remember when…” 

It’s a tad exhausting and over the top, in Mitch’s opinion.

He should probably hate Connor? Or even dislike him heartily what with how good he is on the ice and on the road, or just Dylan’s near hero worship of his best friend but.

Mitch can’t.

Connor’s funny in that dry-wit kind of way that adults talk about. He’s sarcastic and quiet, but when he laughs at something Mitch says, giving Dylan shit, usually… that laugh? It does _something_ to Mitch. Makes him light up a little on the inside, and maybe, _maybe_ if that’s one tenth of how Connor makes Dylan feel? Then maybe McDavid—Connor—isn’t so bad.

It is hard, though. Watching Dylan be all over Connor—because they’re _always_ touching and hugging, and there is _no_ such thing as personal space when they’re all piled on the sofa in Dylan’s basement. Watching Dylan smile and be so at ease with Connor makes it obvious that what Mitch thought he and Dylan were building wasn’t anything of substance at all.

If he catches himself watching for differences in the way Connor will smile at other people and the smile he gives Mitch then… it’s nothing, really. If he maybe starts leaning into Connor when they’re leaning against the wall outside Murphy’s, licking at the drips of mint chocolate and berry as they run down their wrists in the summer heat, then it’s only because Dylan’s still inside, decisions on a fucking scoop of ice cream apparently a time-consuming thing. If he flirts a little, when it’s just him and Connor lying in the dark beside each other on the floor of the McDavids’ basement with Dylan’s snores echoing from the couch in the background… well, it’s dark, and no one can prove anything that’s said in the dark. 

Mitch knows, though, what changes happen to Connor’s voice when he’s blushing.

Mitch also knows the way Connor looks at Dylan, too. Watches the fondness that creeps over Connor’s acne-spotted cheeks and the gentle lift to his lips and roll of his green, green eyes when Dylan says something stupid. Which, it’s Stromer, it happens often.

It makes him wonder if Connor’s had similar conversations about soulmates and hockey bonds with his own version of Mitch. Maybe one of the Raddyshes or Dermott. 

It makes his heart hurt and makes him count down the days until the Draft for more important reasons than who might go third. 

(There’s no way Connor’s not taking first. They’ve watched a little tape of Eichel’s plays and he’s good. He’s just not Connor-good. So, really, it all comes down—as of course it does—to Dylan and Mitch.)

It’s hard to watch Dylan and Connor and not know how badly this is all going to end on what’s meant to be one of the happiest days of their lives.

 

./ ./ ./

“Marner,” Eichel calls out as they’re walking off the bus and into the hotel after finishing filming down at the Everglades Holiday Park. 

Mitch stops and waits, nods at Connor that he’ll be a minute and waits for Crouse and one of their chaperones to move ahead. Eichel catches up, and it’s still a little weird to be talking to Eichel who’s made no bones about how he feels about Connor even if it’s not Connor’s fault that he’s good or that the media like to fucking go _on_ about it. Mitch can’t help that he takes Connor’s side on any of the weirdness that goes on between the Eichel and McDavid camps. It’s a Canadian thing.

(Or an “I snuck a look at my wrist earlier than I should have, and, well… “ thing but. It’s not like he can let _that_ get out).

“You remember we’re being filmed today, yeah?” Jack asks with a lift of one sunburnt brow. He winces and straightens his face quickly. Should have listened when they were all reminded to put on more sunscreen.

“Yeah,” Mitch answers, shifting his hat around so the brim is above his face again. Staring at the setting sun isn’t exactly easy, even with his sunglasses on.

“I’m just saying, you and McDavid? Might want to tone that shit down is all.”

Mitch feels uncomfortable in his skin with Jack’s words. “What do you even mean, man? We weren’t doing anything.”

“Maybe it’s different in Canada? But, like, wrapping your arm around your friend and basically sitting on top of each other on that boat ride wasn’t exactly bros, bro,”

Mitch shifts from one foot to the other. He knows exactly what Jack is talking about, and yeah, it was probably a little much, but Dylan ended up two rows behind them for some reason. “You two have great chemistry,” the cameraman had said, and Dylan just shrugged and hung back while Mitch and Connor took the front seat. 

“And then with the food and shit? You were all over him, man. Like, it’s cool or whatever, love who you love and all but… both of you are wearing your wristbands, don't you think whoever you find out is on there is going to maybe see this shit and wonder what the fuck was going on so close to the Draft?” Jack rights his backpack over both shoulders. “Maybe just tone that shit down, yeah?”

Mitch nods, and Jack walks off with a fucking salute like he’s in the air force or something, leaving Mitch a little out of sorts. 

He’s right in a way. The thing is Mitch knows who’s on his wrist and he doesn’t think they’ll have an issue with it once this whole secrecy thing is over.

At least he really fucking hopes not. 

 

./ ./ ./ 

Connor goes first of course. Then Eichel as mostly predicted. Then it’s Dylan’s name that’s called, and Mitch could be annoyed, but it means he's fourth and he’s a Leaf. He’s a fucking Toronto Maple Leaf and nothing, _nothing_ could be better than that.

Well. Nothing but maybe not losing someone who’s sort of become one of his best friends and ruining another friendship all in the same blow.

 

./ ./ ./

Connor texts him the next day. Long after Mitch has had his own guard removed. 

_Hi, it’s Connor._  
_McDavid._  
_I know we should talk, but I’ve kind of got a lot going on. So maybe in a week?_  
_Sorry._

He doesn’t hear from Dylan at all.

He’s not sure what hurts most. That he’s lost Dylan’s friendship or that his supposed soulmate has forgotten Mitch has had his number for years now.

 

./ ./ ./

Mitch puts a guard back on because he can see in all of Connor’s interviews (and there are a lot) that he’s got one on, too.

If he isn’t ready to tell the world that Mitch Marner is the next Gretzky’s soulmate, than Mitch isn’t ready to lay claim on Connor, either.

 

**./ ./ ./ (2015-2016 season) ./ ./ ./**

He’s back with the Knights and he’s co-captain this year, and it should be everything he’s wanted. They’re playing hot. They’re looking at a short summer and maybe, just maybe, bringing the Memorial Cup home.

Dylan still hates him. Or something. 

They don’t play against each other until mid-November, so there’s no way to even _see_ Dylan unless he drives over there, but, Mitch isn’t brave enough to do that. He texts a few times and calls once, when he’s super drunk and stares at McDavid’s contact info for far longer than he should before scrolling further down to Stromer.

He receives nothing in reply but it wasn’t as if he was really expecting it, once he wakes up severely hungover the next morning.

After he showers, though, and heads out with Domi for some McDonalds for a sure fire hangover cure, his phone starts buzzing.

It may not be a phone call in return, but it is Dylan chirping him about whatever message it was Mitch left. 

_Soulbros, dude? How fucking drunk were you last night!_

And Mitch doesn’t hesitate, just presses the call back button and argues about how it “could” be a thing. Maybe. And just like that, with one ill-timed phone call and another that was far too easy, they’re talking. They talk so much that Mitch lets Domi drive his car home- and Mitch continues talking as he returns upstairs, Gatorade in tow and for nearly two hours later until his eyes just won't stay open anymore and he ends the call. When he wakes way, way later than a mid morning nap should allow, Dylan’s left him a string of texts, and this time when Mitch answers back, it’s Dylan that calls.

They have a lot to catch up on and even if the whole “Connor McDavid is my soulmate” thing doesn’t properly come up. It doesn’t completely stay in the background once Dylan talks about how good it is to finally know and Mitch can hear in his tone how soft Dylan’s smile will be. 

(Dylan may or may not have someone who was also in their draft class on his arm. He may or may not be making a lot of phone calls to someone on the Kelowna Rockets who was also drafted by the Coyotes but… that’s all hearsay).

Dylan’s not talking to Connor either is another fact he gleans from his catch-up with Stromer. Not entirely because of how hurt Dylan was that Connor’s name wasn’t on his own wrist—mostly, because Connor‘s giving him the silent treatment, too. It kind of makes it easier to talk to Dylan after he hears that. It still sucks that Connor is making this whole soulmates thing something he goes through on his own, and it hurts that Mitch is being shut out. Fixing his relationship with Dylan is one thing, but his heart? It’s not quite whole.

 

./ ./ ./

Mitch isn’t watching the game when Connor breaks his clavicle. Gets a text from Dylan moments later because they both aren’t playing tonight and he doesn’t answer because… what would he even say? He feels fucking _sick_ to his stomach and maybe pukes unexpectedly when it happens—and that’s something he didn't realise would happen with this whole soulmate thing (it doesn’t happen to everyone, so his mom says when he asks later). He does watch the replay later that night and maybe he thinks about calling. Holds his phone in his hand, his fingertips hovering over Connor’s name. 

He does drop the damn thing in shock when it starts ringing with Connor’s face front and fucking centre on the screen. When he answers —because of course he does—it’s not the voice he expected on the end of the line.

“Marner? That you? It’s Hallsy, Taylor Hall? I’ve got—just fucking _wait a minute,_ Con—Ebs, can you?” 

The sound that was apparently a whiny McDavid dissipates as Taylor fucking Hall must move somewhere that isn’t… beside Connor. “You still there?” he asks, and Mitch nods before his brain kicks in and he lets out a shaky, stuttered “Yeah.”

“Okay, look. You saw what happened to Connor, yeah? He’s, he’s really fucking out of it on pain meds right now but he’s asking for you. Keeps going on about making it right and needing you and… look, I know we both have games and shit, but he’s your soulmate. There’s clauses for this when it happens. Go talk to your coach and get your ass here as soon as you can. Please,” Hall ends and Mitch finds himself nodding again until he bites out an “Of course,” and a “thank you” because he can’t _not_ say the words.

He gets halfway to the airport, lined up with the few at this hour heading out to sunny Edmonton, before he realises that Taylor Hall knew he was Connor’s soulmate. That Connor might have talked about him. Told people. 

Or just Taylor. Or just blurted it out in some drug-induced haze.

He’s twenty minutes out of Edmonton when he considers that Connor might not even want him there when the drugs wear off.

 

./ ./ ./

Jordan fucking Eberle picks him up at the airport and is quiet as they wind their way through snow-covered streets, and it’s black and dark and _fucking cold._

“He’ll be okay,” Jordan Eberle says (which… Mitch should really stop calling players that he’s probably going to be playing against next year by their full names in his head) just as they pull into a driveway.

“Connor, he’ll be okay,” Jordan says again, probably because Mitch hadn’t said anything in return and he’s still sitting there with his seatbelt on. “He’s high as a fucking kite, and he can’t really eat or drink anything because they’re going to operate tomorrow, but. He’ll be okay.” 

Jordan says all of this and Mitch is still blinking, stuck in his seat, and Jordan sighs, shakes his head and whispers something like, “kids,” before he’s opening his door and stepping out.

Mitch is still sitting there looking up at this normal-looking house with the porch light on and a few upstairs when Jordan opens Mitch’s door and takes his hastily packed duffle from Mitch’s lap. He does seem to waken up a bit when Jordan chuckles, leaning over and unclipping Mitch’s belt, messing with his hair.

“C’mon, kid. He’s waiting for you.”

They get to the door before Mitch finds his voice, Jordan’s hand on the knob and turning, which, maybe they don’t lock doors here? That doesn’t seem entirely safe, but it is ridiculously early in the morning, or night now, so maybe it doesn’t matter considering they knew Jordan would be back. 

“He—he told you about me?” Mitch stumbles over his words, having to clear his throat after possibly his longest bout of silence in his entire life.

Jordan doesn’t turn around but he does seem to freeze up and then relax a second later. It shouldn’t mean anything, but followed up by, “No. Not until tonight.” Well. That’s really fucking telling, isn’t it?

Once they’re inside, Jordan locks the door this time and tips his head toward the stairs, probably so Mitch will know to follow. He does, not really looking around at his surroundings, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and not bumping into Jordan when he stops. 

Taylor Hall is in the.. well _hall,_ sort of half asleep as he leans against the doorframe. “Hey, babe,” he whispers with a soft grin, and oh. Maybe?

Then Taylor yawns, rubbing at his eye, and oh, Mitch sees a flash of N and maybe an H, and well, that’s not a J.E is it? 

“He’s resting. I don’t think he’s really asleep, but he seems more settled than before. Stopped asking for you at any rate,” Taylor smiles as Jordan hands him Mitch’s bag.

“I delivered, now I’m going home, back to my warm bed,” Jordan whispers, rubbing at his wrist where there’s some swirly girl’s name that starts with an L. Laura or Lauren, maybe. 

They bump fists and Mitch manages a weak bye and thanks as Jordan pats his shoulder and disappears down the stairs.

“Hey, you do the same thing as him,” Taylor nods at Mitch.

“What?” Mitch asks, because maybe he’s super tired and wired but he’s got no idea what Taylor is talking about.

“That thing with your wrist. Connor does it all the time, too. Don’t know why either of you wear it. It’s not like being gay or even having soulmates within different teams is a thing to hide anymore.” 

And oh. Mitch looks down, and yeah, he’s got his wristband on but he’s rubbing over the skin around it, that compulsion to touch he gets sometimes and tries hard to ignore. Connor does it, too. Mitch isn’t sure what to think about that. Or what to say, when Taylor is still looking at him like he wants some sort of answer.

“Guess I should see him, yeah?” Mitch says after the silence between them gets sort of awkward, and even though he isn’t sure about seeing Connor again, especially like this, at least he _knows_ who Connor is and not from just watching him on TV.

“Yeah, right sure. Um, you probably can’t share a bed with how still Con needs to be but I set up a cot we borrowed from Test. It’s a tight squeeze, but it’s just for the night. Then you’re welcome to stay until they release Connor, but I guess you’ll fly back with him and his mom once he’s like, a bit better I guess and—” Taylor pauses, takes a breath and smiles at Mitch, his hand going to the same shoulder Jordan had patted.

“The most important thing is he’s going to be okay. It’s a simple surgery. Yeah, the healing time sucks, but he’ll be back on the ice, tearing it up in no time. And you’re here. That’s gonna make him feel a million times better, okay?” 

He sounds so sure that Mitch can almost make himself believe it as he follows Taylor into the room. The room _is_ small. The cot Mitch will be sleeping on just fits between a set of wooden drawers and the double bed Connor is lying in.

“Toilet’s just down the hall to the right. There’s cereal in the cupboard and the milk might still be good. If not, I’ll grab us some in the morning. I put a spare phone charger in the outlet beside the top of your bed, and the cord should reach. I’m gonna sleep.” Taylor points his thumb behind him, and then he’s gone, the door shutting closed softly behind him.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

He’s alone with Connor and he’s… he looks so small tucked up under blankets with his arm in a sling and this little frown in the middle of his forehead. 

Mitch puts his hand lightly over Connor’s ankle. “Davo? Connor? I’m here, it’s, um, it’s Mitch.” 

He doesn’t really expect Connor to talk because he’s sort of snoring but it does make Mitch’s heart ease a little when he hears Connor sigh. When he looks up, that line between Connor’s brow is gone, and well. That’s a start.

The bedside light is on, and Mitch is suddenly hit by how tired he is. He strips efficiently, changes into a long-sleeved shirt and of course, the one thing he forgets is something to sleep in. Taylor or Jordan or someone must have thought about the maybes of rushed and forgetful packing because there’s a set of Oilers sweats on the end of the cot. He manages to pull them on, lifting the covers up and face-planting before he’s out like a light.

 

./ ./ ./

He wakes up sometime still far-too-early later that morning, looks over and sees his hand is stretched out and up, and Connor’s fingers are resting over the tips of his own. His body seems to radiate warmth from their barely there connection, but… it’s enough.

 

./ ./ ./

An injured Connor McDavid is a tiny bit of an asshole.

Probably why he gets along so well with Stromer.

He whines a lot, but not when Mrs. McDavid is around, mostly just when Mitch is there. He won’t ask for help when it's just him and Mitch, but the moment his mom walks in it’s “Can I have a glass of water, please?” and “Could you get my pills, please?” and “I could do with another pillow. Please.”

His mom sort of glared at Mitch like it was his fault he couldn’t read Connor’s mind the first few times. By the second day Mitch was at the McDavid home and wondering why he was hanging around when he was so obviously not wanted, she must have figured it out. Mitch had asked him around the same time as the day before about Connor’s meds and was ignored with a politely Canadian, “No, thanks.” Again, when he noticed that pinched look that meant Connor’s shoulder was starting to ache, he asked about a pillow and was turned down again. The third time, when he knew Connor was looking at his empty water glass on the table, Mitch asked. An answering no. Seconds later, Mrs. McDavid is striding into the room and giving Connor a piece of her mind about letting Mitch—your _soulmate,_ Connor—help. 

It works to a degree and Mrs. McDavid—Kelly, please, sweetheart—and Mitch are able to take turns helping Connor out. 

They still don’t talk, though. They don’t wake up holding hands again, either, as the McDavids have a guest room and that's where Mitch sleeps so Connor can heal. 

He ends up going back to London and his Knights a day earlier than the week they allowed him to be gone, and the most he gets from Connor is a “thanks for coming” as Kelly takes him to the bus station.

 

./ ./ ./

Dylan gets annoying real fast asking if Mitch has heard from Connor.

Mitch hasn’t. Still hasn’t and a week after that. Still. Nothing.

It’s not to say he doesn’t know how Connor is doing, Kelly does have his number. 

It just. Mitch feels like it should have _meant_ something that he was there. That he came when Connor called. Even if he didn’t ever say anything of substance to Mitch while he was there.

Mitch Googles “soulmates gone wrong” and “could this be the wrong name on my arm?” And “what to do if your soulmate isn’t in love with you” and makes himself sad between games, and thankfully, they play more than they have downtime so it’s not a lot of sadness at all.

Well, unless you look at how often he searches “Connor McDavid” and “shirtless images” because that’s just… pathetic.

 

./ ./ ./

The last person Mitch expects to see on the doorstep of his family home two days before Christmas is Connor McDavid.

So maybe it’s the shock that has him closing the door.

Maybe he just wants to ignore Connor like Connor has been ignoring _him_ for a change.

Connor knocks again, and Mitch actually checks to see if the sweater he’s wearing has any stains or cookie crumbs on it from his latest Hallmark Christmas Movie cookie eating marathon before he opens the door properly this time.

Connor is awkward as he enters the house. At least he lets Mitch take his coat when Mitch asks, and then it’s more standing and not saying anything until Mitch just shrugs his shoulders and heads back to his sweet spot on the sofa.

Connor follows and sits beside Mitch, not too close, looking stiff and sore, and it honestly makes Mitch feel like a slob he’s so fucking uptight.

“Dude, look. You came here, I promise not to ask why or whatever until you can just… maybe tell me yourself. We’ll just sit here, eat cookies, and watch shitty Candace Cameron sing Christmas carols to some hot tree farmer or possibly a hotel owner and we’ll chill until you can actually be not mute.” Mitch sounds a lot more abrupt than he was hoping to, but it’s nearly Christmas and Connor just fucking appears out of nowhere after days of no communication, so. Whatever. He should be allowed to be an ass to his soulmate. Person. 

Connor eventually settles in, his good shoulder dropping down some that even his bad one looks at a better angle. He takes a cookie when Mitch basically shoves the plate in his face, and the Candace Cameron movie finishes and another one with Alicia Witt and some meddling aunts starts up before Connor utters a word.

“I’m sorry” is what he starts with, and Mitch is paying attention to what’s happening on screen, so he nearly misses it.

“Sorry?” 

“For… arriving without telling you. For ignoring you when you came home with me. For not telling everyone you were mine and I was yours. For being a dick in, you know, general,” Connor says with a shrug and then winces at the action. 

Mitch turns in his seat, notes the flush of colour high on Connor’s cheeks. The way his hair is nearly curling it's gotten so long now. His eyes are focused on where his hands are toying with a loose string on the blanket Mitch threw over their legs earlier when he spotted Connor shivering. 

“Sorry,” Mitch repeats. Because there is a _lot_ to take in from that little ramble of Connor’s, and he isn’t sure where to start.

“Look, I… I was thinking some things and it turns out they were wrong, so I've maybe been angry with you for no real reason for a long time,” Connor says, green eyes flicking up to Mitch’s then back to his hands. “Stromer set me right.”

“Dylan?” 

“Yeah, um. I may have thought. I don’t know, that you and him were a thing and that this whole soulmate thing would get in the way of that but. Merkley, I guess.” 

Mitch snorts, and Connor giggles, and it's sort of settling in a way. Not enough, though.

“Dylan and I weren’t ever really a thing,” Mitch says, turning so his leg is up on the sofa more and he’s facing Connor. 

“He talked about you all the time, and I saw you that once, y’know...” Connor’s face is pinking up further as he gestures to his neck and. Oh. That time.

Mitch clears his throat. “That was. That was just a stupid thing that we did once. A few times. It wasn’t. It wasn’t _this,_ ” Mitch finishes, gesturing to the skin around Connor’s bare right wrist. 

“Oh,” Connor sighs, his lips turning up a little and he looks… that’s happiness.

Mitch lets his fingertips graze over his name, _his name_ on Connor’s wrist. Follows the distinct lines of black over and over and feels it like a warmth spreading out from his chest to every hair on his body and reverberating inside, too. It’s. This is what he thought it would feel like. Being with your soulmate. Finding out who your heart wants. Seeks. Should be with forever.

“Maybe we should kiss?” Connor spits out after some time has passed and someone has sung “Jingle Bells” at least twice on the TV. It’s almost as if he didn’t mean to speak, with how adorable he looks when his face is this red. “See if we’re compatible. I mean, you know.” Connor shrugs his good shoulder, and fuck, how is Mitch supposed to be with this idiot forever?

“Kiss compatibles,” Mitch says, all faux serious, nodding his head and trying to keep his lips straight. 

“Yes. Yeah. That,” Connor stutters and Mitch puts his hands on Connor’s shoulders, as gentle as he can, considering. He can do this. He can be brave and help his soulmate out. He just has to lean in.

“I’ve. I’ve never,” Connor says after, when Mitch’s head is spinning and he’s pretty sure there’s an orchestra or maybe a choir in his ears singing the praises of the brief three-second lip touch they just had. Mitch has _never_ felt like that from a kiss before. Never. 

It’s fucking awesome. 

He leans in to do it again—because, duh—when he remembers exactly what Connor sort of said.

“Never? Kissed someone?” Mitch asks, brows riding up as he does. 

Connor shakes his head. He’s looking at the blanket again, and his fingertips, which Mitch had noted delightfully before had landed on Mitch’s hips, now sit idle on the tartan instead of holding tight like they were. 

“Well, yeah, I've kissed people. Kissed Stromer, once.” 

Mitch feels his gut turn, and oh. Oh god, what if after all this time this whole thing, this dating shit and everything was just supposed to be for them to be bound in good hockey like that dumb conversation he had with Dylan that one night nearly a year ago. 

“Just for like, practice, and only once!” Connor says fast, his hand cupping Mitch’s jaw, and his eyes really are a pretty shade of green. Mitch really likes Connor’s eyes.

“Okay.” Mitch nods because he can feel it, he knows through their bond that Connor isn’t lying, that he’s serious and still so, so embarrassed. About what, Mitch hasn’t a clue.

“It was a good kiss, though, right?” Mitch asks because yeah, he’s cocky like that. And it was. A good kiss.

“Yeah.” Connor smiles that half-smile thing of his where his canine shows more on one side and it's sort of adorable.

Kill Mitch—now he’s thinking Connor is _adorable._ He really didn’t want to be one of _those_ soulmate couples. His brother is sickening enough with his Sarah. 

He leans in to kiss Connor (good) again and also to hush himself from saying anything else, like “You are too cute for words, McDavid” or something else vomit inducing like that. Connor holds him back though, his hands steady again on Mitch’s hips. 

“Wait, I just. I think I have to tell you now, because the kiss was so good and—” He pauses, licks his lips and yes. Kissing. They do that well. Maybe Connor would be up for nibbling and maybe Mitch sucking on Connor’s bottom lip. It’s basically begging for it. All shiny and red and. There.

“I’ve-never-done-more-than-kissing-before,” Connor spits out fast, and it takes Mitch a second or three to figure it out.

“You’ve never done more than kissing?” Mitch repeats and Connor’s face could be the centre of a volcano, it’s that red now. Almost glowing.

“I’m, I just. I wanted to wait,” Connor says softly, and he’s looking at the ground again, and what?

“You’re a virgin?” Mitch basically shouts, and Connor’s eyes go super wide and he hides his face behind his hands and oh. That was loud. Too loud for in the house and definitely too loud when he knows his mom is somewhere around, possibly listening in this whole time. The kitchen _is_ decidedly quiet.

“Shit, Connor, i'm sorry. It’s. Of course. Fine? Yes. Good. I mean. I’m—” Mitch closes his eyes and smacks himself in the forehead. 

He breathes in and out slowly and then circles his fingers around Connor’s wrists, pulling his hands down. Connor’s eyes are still shut tight and his heart is racing; Mitch can feel it. He can maybe feel it big enough for them both, which is weird. Being soulmates doesn’t normally mean knowing what the other is experiencing, but Connor McDavid is anything but _normal._ Why not with this?

“Mitchell, I’m heading out now, okay?” His mom’s voice startles the crap out of him and has Connor freezing up under his hands. “I’ve got… stuff to do. Shopping. For dinner. In Toronto. Maybe Niagara Falls.” 

“We get it, Mom, you’re giving us some alone time!” Mitch calls back, his own cheeks heat and the house settles to quiet apart from some ill-timed Christmas bells and an advert for some soulmates movie on the Hallmark Channel. 

When Mitch feels Connor’s fingertips on his cheek, turning his head back toward him, he isn’t expecting the heated look McDavid is giving him.

“Maybe we could, um, make use of that?” Connor stutters and well. Okay. “Because kissing you like this is great and all but my shoulder is starting to ache and maybe it won't hurt so much if I’m lying in your bed, I mean a bed, I didn’t mean to presume—”

Mitch cuts him off with a filthy kiss, because Mitch gets it but he also kind of really _likes_ the idea of Connor in his bed. Even if it’s just to help out his shoulder. 

 

./ ./ ./

Turns out there’s a little you _can_ do when recovering from surgery like Connor is and a whole _lot_ that Mitch wants to, now he knows he can.

They do get Connor propped up against Mitch’s headboard, comfortably surrounded by cushions. 

They do kiss. A lot. So much so that when Connor pushes at Mitch’s chest, Mitch’s lips tingle and he’s sort of _drunk_ on how good it feels to be kissing him. It may be why he feels a tad guilty of what Connor accuses him of.

“You can’t, I want. Mitchell,” Connor whimpers and looks down between them, and oh. 

Hello, not so Little McDavid. 

“That’s not so bad, Davo, like… you know that’s _supposed_ to happen, right?” Mitch asks all soft, only to change his mind on his tone when Connor punches him in the shoulder.

“No, you dick, I mean either do something or, like, stop doing _that!_ ” Connor points down between them again and okay. Mitch drawing slow circles on the taut skin under Connor’s belly button and skirting under the elastic of his sweats is probably a big enough tease. It’s just, now that he’s sort of allowed to touch Connor? He seems to be doing it without a single thought to why he should stop. 

“I can, um, take care of that, if you like,” Mitch says, and Connor’s eyes go wide. “Or not, the kissing is good, I can stop.” Mitch pulls his hand away but doesn’t get too far, Connor’s hand covering his own, pressing it down on Connor’s warm skin. 

“No, no. It’s just. I can’t really _do_ anything in return like this and if you do _that_ I’m going to want to try it on you and that’s not going to— _oh, oh yeah, like that—_ ” Connor moans as Mitch sort of straddles Connor’s hips and rocks them together in a way that has Connor’s dick riding against Mitch’s ass and the back of Connor’s hand nudging at where Mitch is hard, too. 

Mitch rolls his hips again and, yeah, this is nice but. “Your shoulder okay when I do this?”

Connor nods, eyes glassy and his cheeks already red, a stain of it spreading down his neck. So this is what turned-on McDavid looks like. Nice. Mitch did that.

Mitch ignores the hurt sound that Connor makes as he shifts his weight off Connor and rips his shirt off, followed by his sweats (no boxers, he wasn’t exactly expecting anyone, and this is _his_ house, so).

“I wanted to do that,” Connor whines, and Mitch has to kiss him quickly and then duck out of reach before he forgets what he’s doing here. 

“Lift your hips,” he whispers, fingertips on either side of Connor’s waist as he drags Connor’s sweats and pants down to his ankles, lifts them both gently to get Connor half naked. He pushes Connor’s shirt up as far as he can because it look like it’d be more effort to take off, then swings his knee over Connor’s body and gets settled on Connor’s impressive thighs.

“This okay?” he asks, and Connor is staring at him like Mitch has just told him he’s going to the playoffs or something. 

Connor nods and his eyes roll back a little as Mitch wraps his hand around them both, starts rocking them together in this sweet push and pull. Connor whines, and then he’s licking his hand and knocking Mitch’s out of the way and, yeah. That’s better. Mitch sets up the play, Connor takes the shot.

Literally. He loses his load three strokes in, and Mitch would laugh but it’s _Connor_ and he sort of loves him, and he also sort of needs to come himself.

Which he does, lasting three more strokes than Connor, who gets that pinched, serious look as he works Mitch over, even after coming so hard Mitch is sure there’s a string of white hanging off his own chin.

 

./ ./ ./

“Can’t wait to do that again,” Connor says all out of breath, smiling and with flushed cheeks. 

He’s lying flat against Mitch’s bed—Mitch’s bed!—and makes the world's saddest puppy eyes when he realises his metal-filled, healing shoulder is the reason he can’t turn on his side and curl around Mitch. Which Mitch knows because Connor also says it at the same time. 

“I wanted to cuddle. This sucks.” He pouts and Mitch leans over and kisses it away before resting his head on Connor’s good side, wrapping his arm around Connor’s waist as he tugs a blanket up with one hand. 

“This good enough?” Mitch asks, his lips apparently magnetised to everything Connor as he turns his head, presses them again and again to Connor’s chest like a rock skipping the surface of the water.

“Better if you’d kiss me again. I kind of like doing that.”

Mitch doesn’t even hesitate. They have all the time today, tomorrow and for forever to do more than just kiss. This, this is enough. 

 

./ ./ ./

If when he sees his boys after the too-short Christmas break with a ridiculous row of hickies on his neck and across his collarbone, well….

It’s better they notice that first, than how he’s conveniently not wearing his wristband anymore.

(It’s in the bin beside his bed alongside Connor’s. For commemorative joint decision making reasons. And also because Mitch is lazy and hasn’t cleaned the damn thing out yet.)

~fin


End file.
